


Trapped

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Peril, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John attempt to escape their pursuers, but one of them might not make it to safety. Sherlock must decide which course of action to follow, and which lives to risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

“Come ON, John! We’re nearly out!”

Gunshots echoed behind them in the tunnel, maybe a mile back.

_Shit. There went the informant. Hope Sherlock has what he needs._

John was doing his best to keep up with Sherlock as they navigated at top speed through the underground maze. Well, Sherlock navigated, John flung himself almost blindly after the light of Sherlock’s LED torch in the darkness of the catacombs.

Catacombs, for heaven’s sake.

What was it he’d quipped to Mycroft about life with Sherlock? “I’m never bored.”

He rounded a corner just in time to barrel into Sherlock, nearly knocking them both down.

“NO!” Sherlock shouted into the air. “NO, No, NO! Dammit, this restoration was labeled complete six months ago!”

John bent forward, hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. “That’s what they call ‘on Italian time,’ right?”

A sturdy, barred fence extended from the floor to the ceiling and from side to side. Sherlock dropped to the ground and examined where the posts went into the stone surface. “That’s stuck in nearly half a meter, I expect.”

John watched, not a little enviously, as Sherlock leapt up, caught hold of a top railing and looked at the upper section of the bars. He dropped back down again and shook his head.

“Right,” John said.  “We turn back?”

Sherlock breathed out heavily and scanned the immediate area. “No. They’ll be past any of the turn-offs; we’ll only shorten the distance between us and a bullet if we turn back.”

“Maybe the two of us could dislodge this together?” John grasped one bar with both hands, inclining his head.

“Impossible, even for both of us. Maybe….” Sherlock backed up to the wall opposite John. It was slightly concave where it met the last bar of the fence.

“This might work. Hold the torch for me, John.”

Sherlock handed over the torch and proceeded to flatten himself against the rock wall. Slowly, he moved one leg into the space between the fence and the curve of the tunnel. He bent to the side and managed to push his slender hips through, then his other leg.

John held the torch and tried not to imagine Sherlock’s head caught forever between iron and rock.

Sherlock bent his waist to put his chest at the broadest part of the opening, blew out as much air as possible from his lungs, then squeezed the rest of himself through.

“Pass me the torch again. Right. The service access is half a kilometer away.”

John looked at the impossibly-small opening Sherlock had managed to pass through.

“Fine. So I’ll just start the diet now, shall I? Perhaps I’ll drop enough weight by Christmas?”

Sherlock picked up a shovel, then discarded it. “Wooden handle is rotten. No use. I need a crowbar, or a length of steel rod.” He irreverently threw crockery, small tools, possibly ancient remains out of his way as he searched for something to help loosen the grate that separated John from the escape route.

John turned his head. He could hear voices echoing very faintly in the distance.

“How long till they catch up, Sherlock?”

“Perhaps ten minutes, at the most.”

“Okay.” John set his jaw. “Then get out, Sherlock.”

“No. There has to be something here I can use to budge that…or increase the space..”

John reached his hand through the bars and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist.

“Get out now. Innocent people will die without the information you’ve gotten.”

“No, John. I’m not leaving you.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed even in the low light.

John squeezed Sherlock’s wrist and pulled him closer. “And how will that help either of us? You dying for nothing. Those people dying for nothing!”

“YOU are not ‘nothing.’ What does it matter who lives if you die, John!” Sherlock's voice echoed in the close space. John could tell the man was truly panicking.

John passed his other hand through the bars and caught Sherlock’s lapel. He managed to bring Sherlock close enough for their faces to touch.

He planted an angry, passionate kiss on Sherlock’s mouth.

“Go. They may not want rid of me. They may decide I’m useful enough to be a bargaining chip. You can find me. You always do.”

John could feel tears running down one side of Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock breathed in an out, raggedly at first, then more steadily. He opened his eyes and locked them on John's. “I will come back for  you, John. And I will kill every last one of them if they harm you.”

John laughed weakly. “So romantic, you are. Well, we are in Rome,” 

“Yes. Yes, and some of the footsoldiers may not speak English. You must tell them… tell them… ‘ _segreti importanti – me vogliono vivo_ ’ … can you remember that?”

John could hear the break in Sherlock’s voice. Time to be brave, Captain Watson.

“Yes.  _Segreti importanti_ , yes, now go, Sherlock, before you start rattling off more Italian to me. I’d rather they not find me sporting an erection. They might get the wrong idea entirely. GO.”

Sherlock drew John into another desperate, hungry kiss. “I love you, John. I won’t leave without saying it this time.”

“I love you, Sherlock. Now for fuck’s sake GET OUT.”

Sherlock’s gaze lingered on John for second longer, then he turned and ran at top speed in the other direction.

John staggered backward and pressed his back to the cool, dark rock.

The tiny light of Sherlock’s torch grew smaller and fainter.

The voices coming from the opposite direction grew a bit louder.

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.

“ _Segreti importanti…. Segreti importanti… Segreti importanti…”_  he repeated to himself.


	2. Trapped

John heard shouts and the sound of running getting closer in the dark. Then the lights of torches nearly blinded him as a pair of hands grabbed him and threw him against the metal gate, and fist connected with his solar plexus.

He would have doubled over in pain had another hand not gripped his throat and held him upright against the bars.

“ _Dove cazzo e’? Dimmi, stronzo, o t’ammazzo_!”

Even if John had understood the language, he couldn’t have responded that instant; the breath was still knocked out of him. He fought to gulp down enough air to speak.

The muzzle of a gun dug into his temple. “ _Inglese…_ ” John panted, “ _inglese_..”

The man who’d been speaking let out a growl of impatience.

“Where. He. IS!?” the man shouted.

John could feel the pressure from the gun increase as his adversary grew more exasperated.

He swallowed, closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

More loud cursing in Italian followed, and John was thrown roughly to his knees. He heard the click of a gun's chamber being loaded.

“ _Segreti importanti!_ ” he shouted.

Silence. He could hear his own ragged breaths echoing.

“ _Segreti importanti. Mi vole… ah… mi vollon…_ ” dammit what was the rest of that? Well, skip to the important part, then: “ _vivo_!”

The others muttered, then shouted amongst themselves. John tilted his head enough to get a better look at two of the figures. One was about his height, built more like a runner, though. The other, well, he would have easily towered over Sherlock, and John questioned whether the big man’s shoulders would have even fit through the door at Baker Street.

The third figure was directly behind him. The one holding the gun.

John closed his eyes again. Sherlock’s gambit would either work on them, or in a few seconds he would be dead. He let his mind drift back to the day he watched Sherlock “die” right in front of him. At least Sherlock would be spared that. At least they parted on good terms. John even smiled very slightly, thinking of the days right after Sherlock’s return; anger and shock had worn away quickly, and they’d spent days, a week almost, lying in bed, discovering each other again, re-living the previous years through the other’s stories.

Not the worst life. Not the longest, but that didn’t matter to him. A few years with Sherlock were worth a lifetime sitting at home, after all.

A deep, velvet voice speaking the words “I love you” echoed in the back of his mind.

Then everything went dark, still, and silent.

\--to be continued--


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock shoved aside two neatly-dressed antiquities officials and kneeled to examine the ground directly in front of them.

“ _Nessuno si muova_!” he shouted, sounding much more frantic and angry than he'd intended. Officials and police alike froze on the spot. Two of the workmen who’d removed the iron gate instinctively stopped leaning against the wall; both stood up straight, and one deferentially extinguished his cigarette.

“Foot prints indicate three men, one with a light but athletic build, one quite tall, heavily-muscled, multiple traumas to the left knee over time judging by his gait…” Sherlock held out one hand, but did not raise his eyes.

“ _Una torcia!”_ he snapped his fingers to indicate haste. “ _Dai, dai_ _!”_

A timid-looking young woman from the research and restoration division slid an LED torch into Sherlock’s hand, careful not to step too close to whatever this manic _inglese_ was obsessing over.

“Mister Holmes,” a cultivated, Oxford-trained voice purred, “the Italian investigators, police, and members of the academic community are more than capable of conducting –“

Sherlock stood up and locked eyes with the British Embassy’s representative, then he took one long stride to stand nose-to-nose with him.  “Mister Caldwell, I don’t care if you’ve sent the best investigators in Europe, or even the Pope himself – tell him he’s welcome, by the way, and the Vatican Museum needn’t worry in future – but I fully intend to direct my own investigation in my own time without interference from you or anyone else.”

He wheeled back around abruptly and resumed inspecting the floor of the catacomb.

All eyes moved from the embassy official to Sherlock, and then back again.

“Have a care, Mister Holmes,” Caldwell replied. "The justice system here will not simply bow to your will if….or rather, _when_ … these suspects are taken into custody. You may yet have need of certain favours from us if you wish to see any real retribution.”

“Ah. And are these the sort of favours  that your deputy chief-of-staff provides you in return for his tiny share of  funds you’ve been embezzling for the last eight years?”

An awkward cough was followed by a few muted whispers.

Sherlock leaned down to put eyes as close as possible to one section of the rock floor, scraped at a tiny darker stain, then sat up again, his expression icy.

Recently-dried blood. Sherlock closed his eyes. Recently-dried  blood from John Watson, by every indication.  This spot would have been where John’s head had briefly made contact with the ground before he was lifted up and carried away. Sherlock brought one hand to his mouth as his brain worked through the scene.

“Holmes, you have no right to insin-“

“Shut up. Right now. Shut the hell up while your jaw is intact.” Sherlock stood up slowly, pulled off one latex glove, then the other, and threw them at Caldwell’s chest without even turning his head in his direction.  “And you needn’t worry about my involvement in the official investigation.”

“Admitting defeat, then?” the haughty voice jeered.

Sherlock stopped but didn’t look back.

“No, Caldwell. Quite the opposite.  I'm advising you that the local coroner should expect to receive those individuals' remains within the next seventy-two hours.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

“ _Volevo ammazzarlo lí, ma…Sí. Sí, subito. Dieci minuti._ ”

John awoke to the sound of one side of a telephone conversation and the muted noise of very nearby traffic.  He was in a moving vehicle, a van or small, closed truck judging from the fact that he was lying nearly face-down on a hard surface.

His hands were cuffed behind him, and he could see nothing, but he could feel his own breath each time he exhaled.  He could also feel some kind of cloth sticking to the dried blood on his left temple. _So a hood or bag of some sort, then,_ he thought.

He remained perfectly still, breathing as slowly and evenly as possible, hoping to appear unconscious.

_Sherlock will come after me. But what will be waiting for him?_

Ten minutes later, he was being dragged roughly out of the van and forced to walk, blindly, along uneven ground. He could hear birdsong, the distant bleat of sheep. No traffic sounds, no smell of diesel, so definitely far outside the city. _Christ, how long was I out?_ he wondered. Soon there was the faint pop-pop of guns being fired maybe a kilometer away. It was rhythmic, like target practice. Shouts, too, but not distress; more like the sound of men on a physical training course.  Were they at an army base?  He slowed his pace just a bit so he could concentrate on the noise.

He was rewarded with a brutal shove between his shoulder blades.

“ _Avanti!”_

John staggered and nearly fell, but he managed to regain his balance. Gravel crunched under his right foot.

Another shove, harder this time, caught him by surprise. John fell forward, his hands bound behind him, and landed hard on his left side. His head hit the gravel walkway despite his efforts to arch his neck up and away.

 _Two hits near the temple in under twelve hours. No idea how hard the first one was, either. A bit not goo_ _d_. He felt a wave of nausea.

Two massive hands grasped him by the arms and pulled him up to his feet. John’s knees nearly gave out, but the hands held him securely upright until he could stand on his own.

They continued along the walkway until John’s foot hit a low step. The large hands appeared again and helped John navigate up to the landing. They were almost gentle about it, in fact.

“Thank you,” John muttered. “I mean, _grazie._ ”

“Mm.” the deep bass voice replied.

With the larger man’s help, John made it through the door, across a wide expanse of wooden floor, and up several flights of steps.  He heard the smaller man speaking behind him, then the beep of a mobile phone.

“ _Ci aspetta. Lascialo stare, Stefano_. ” The small man jerked John’s arm free of Stefano’s grasp and led John ahead at a brisk pace.

They stopped to wait for what sounded like a set of doors being unlocked, walked ahead, then waited as men spoke in hushed tones to someone new. More doors opened, and John was led into a room and pushed down into a soft, leather armchair.

The cloth hood finally came off, and John squinted a bit as his eyes focused. Opposite him, a sharply-dressed, older man sat at an impressive wooden desk and studied the sleek electronic display of a high-end tablet.  He waved a hand without looking up, and the men who had accompanied John nodded curtly and left.

The room appeared to be part of a restored manor house, probably attached to a sprawling orchard and farm, John imagined, remembering some of the scenery from his train trip earlier in the week. Sherlock had ignored all of it, as usual. Boring.

 _I could do with a bit of boring right now,_ he thought.

The older gentleman tapped the screen and then set the device down on his desk.

“Doctor Watson, yes? A pleasure to meet you.” The man smiled warmly. He had silvery-grey hair, impeccable clothing, and when he spoke, John heard only the faintest trace of an Italian accent. “I so enjoy your writing on the internet. And the charming titles you give each case! Quite a flair for language you have.”

John cleared his throat. “Awfully kind of you. Cheers.”

“Now,” the man folded his hands and looked intently, capturing John’s gaze with a pair of intense, coffee-coloured eyes, “I am told you possess very important secrets for me? What would these secrets be, if I may ask?”

John smiled. “Well, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore if I told you, now, would they? I’d lose all my sense of mystery.”

The other man chuckled. “I agree. There is no joy.. nothing to savour in that, is there?” He drew a smartphone from his breast pocket and tapped at the screen a few times.

The door opened, and two unfamiliar men entered, each holding tightly to the arms of a pretty but terrified-looking young woman.

John’s face fell. “Sorry, what’s going on? Am I supposed to know this woman?” he could tell that his voice betrayed panic and outrage. He didn’t care. “Look, whatever you think, my secrets have nothing to do with her, I’m sure.” John leaned forward in an attempt to stand, but a third man pressed a hand to John’s shoulder and pushed him back against the chair.

“Oh this girl is completely irrelevant to your secrets, Doctor Watson. But I know from your blog that you are a military veteran. And I know from my own research that you were briefly held prisoner there by what you would call the enemy.”

John looked at the terrified eyes of the woman, then back at the man opposite him. “Yes, I… Please, I don’t understand. There’s no need to involve her.”

The man leaned back in his own chair. “Well, it certainly wouldn’t be as effective to torture _you_ , Doctor.” He opened a drawer and took out a large hunting knife.

John felt his heart pounding. “God, no… Please, please don’t do this!”


	5. Chapter 5

Fear, anger, and outrage burned in the pit of John’s stomach as one of the men took the hunting knife from on top of the desk and held the blade close to the young woman’s face.

“ _No…per pieta’ – no! Vi prego_!” she wept, trembling so hard she risked cutting herself against the perfectly still point next to her cheek.

The older man stayed perfectly calm. He smiled cordially. “And forgive me; I’ve not introduced myself. My name is Luciano di Corvo. Your friend Mister Holmes knows my name quite well,  though I take it he has not mentioned it you before?”

A bead of sweat ran down John’s neck as he stared at the panicking young woman.

“For Christ’s sake, just leave her be! I’ll tell you right now –“

Di Corvo held up one hand. “One moment, please, Doctor..... _Alessandro_.” The man with the knife turned to face his employer. “ _Un occhio, penso. Quello_.” He pointed to his own right eye. Alessandro nodded dutifully and turned back to the girl, knife poised at her eye level.

“Noooo!!” she screamed, crumpling as she backed away. The second man held her arms tightly about her  waist. Alessandro took a handful of her hair and pulled her head back, holding it still.

A man behind John managed to put him in a choke hold before he could lunge out of the seat.

“Please- I don’t HAVE ANY SECRETS!” He shouted hoarsely.

Alessandro looked at di Corvo, awaiting his orders. Di Corvo merely raised one eyebrow.

“Oh, yes?” he remarked, sounding no more than casually interested in the topic.

 “He told me to lie… “ John breathed heavily, struggling in an attempt to break the hold. “I lied so they’d keep me alive.  Dammit, don’t… don’t do this!”

He looked at the young woman.

She’d stopped crying.

Stopped trembling, too.

A broad smile spread across her face.

And then she winked at him.

Immediately, the man behind John released his grip; Alessandro set the knife back on the desk and stepped aside while his partner let go of the woman.

She walked  over to John and placed one hand on the side of his face, grinning at him. “My father was absolutely right about you! I am glad! And you are simply delicious when you’re heroic.” She looked over her shoulder at her father. “Papà, can I keep him when you’re finished?  I would love to break him.”

"What?" John blinked several times and wondered if he might still be passed out somewhere, dreaming all of this.

Di Corvo sighed. “Elena, he’s far too old for that sort of thing. He wouldn’t last a week.” He picked up his tablet and tapped at the screen.

Elena reached back and took the knife from the table. She played idly with the point of it as she looked John Watson up and down.

John set his jaw and glared.

“Oh a month, at least, Papà. He has something…. I can see it.” She hiked up her skirt just enough to allow her to straddle John’s legs and plop down on his lap.

“My father says you were shot in the war, John Watson. So.  May I have a look at your scar?”

Laughing, she slid her knife blade underneath the shirt button nearest John’s heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Moriarty and Adler had a daughter? That's Elena.


	6. Chapter 6

The idea of dying, particularly dying alone and in pain, dying without Sherlock, should have been the most frightening thing on John’s mind at that particular moment. After all, there was a large hunting knife pulling at the material of his shirt, slicing off the buttons as it made its way from the middle of his chest up to his throat.

But the knife didn’t scare him nearly as much as the eyes of the woman wielding it.  And John had seen frightening eyes before. He’d been prepared to die at a public pool in order to save his friend from them.

These eyes, though… they reminded him of his worst nights in Afghanistan, or of the times when he’d allowed himself to imagine what he could do to the people who he once believed had driven Sherlock to suicide.

John shivered, and he knew it had nothing to do with the possibility that he might soon be tortured or killed. 

His movement elicited an incongruously girlish giggle from the woman sitting on his lap. “Oooh, are you starting to enjoy this?” She casually reached down between his legs and palmed his crotch. He inhaled sharply and looked away. “Hmm, not nearly as much as you could be. Such a gentleman!” She leaned her face a bit closer to him and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “Don’t worry; I won’t say a thing to my father. He does get so protective of my virtue.”

Signor di Corvo laughed quietly and continued scrolling down whatever was on the screen of his tablet. Occasionally, he would stop, take a pen out of a gilt holder on the desk, and make a note on a narrow slip of paper.

Elena slipped her knife blade under the final button of John’s shirt. She barely had to move her wrist to sever the threads and send the button rolling to the floor. The white t-shirt underneath showed a few tiny specks of red where the point of the knife had pricked John’s skin. Using both hands, she pulled the now de-buttoned shirt open and pushed it down off of John’s shoulders.

For a moment Elena crinkled her brow, looking from one of John’s shoulders to the other. John felt the need to assert some kind of control, however useless, over the situation. “It’s the left one, darling,” he said, a patronizing, defiant tone in his voice. Damned if he’d let her know how uncomfortable she was making him. “That’d be MY left, your right.” He even managed a smirk.

“Huh. Gosh, my pretty little head can barely work that out. You know, the men of my father’s generation were probably right to keep us in our places. Why a girl would want anything other than a life of domestic bliss is just beyond me,” Elena dipped her head and licked the hollow at the base of John’s throat before taking the collar of his t-shirt between her teeth and pulling her head back as far as she could make the material stretch. Then she inserted the knife through the taut fabric until the point came to rest exactly where her tongue had been seconds before.

John swallowed, but held her gaze, unflinching. Elena released the fabric from her teeth and drew the knife steadily upward along the line of John’s throat, under his chin, up to his mouth. She pressed just slightly along the swell of his lower lip, and the t-shirt’s neck split down the middle, creating a jagged, deep V.

A droplet of blood bloomed under the tip of the knife. Elena moved the blade and licked the drop away, then took John's lip between her own and sucked gently.

John pulled his head back. “Listen, not to be rude, but is there a point to all of this? I’ve told you there’s nothing useful I can offer, so…”

Elena’s fingers played across John’s collar bones. “Practice is always useful, _Giovanni_.”

Di Corvo looked over at them, a proud, parental glint in his eye.“Elena will be taking over the business from me soon, Doctor Watson. I’m ready to enjoy the fruits of my labours in my -what was that lovely expression- Sunset years? She is an exceptionally intelligent and versatile leader.Tenacious, detail-oriented, passionate, creative.”

“I’m getting those last two, yeah. Thanks.”  John tried to shift himself in the chair in an attempt to lessen the amount of bodily contact between himself and the woman now licking at his ear.

Elena laughed, low and soft. “So, this scar of yours. I simply must look.” She tore open the cotton t-shirt and pushed it away until John’s torso was laid bare before her. Long, agile fingers stroked the muscles of John’s chest, lingering a bit on the light hair near his sternum. Then she focused her attention on the starburst-patterned scar. “Mm," She mused, "Long-distance hit, decent caliber rifle.  The assailant was either a terrible shot, or you weren’t the intended target… Oh, evidence of swelling, secondary infection... they had to open it up again.. twice.” John saw her eyes flicking over his shoulder as if she were reading an intricate topographical map.  “Beautiful….” She murmured to herself.

“Thanks. I’ll pass along your compliments to the Afghanistan medical unit. The ones that made it back, anyway.”

“Hah. Oh, you’re so jealous of them. The ones who didn’t make it back. You wish this had been worse, I think.”

John swallowed.

Elena brought the blade of her knife close to the scar. She dragged it along one of the raised white lines.

“Look at me, John Watson,” she instructed. “Do you see something in my eyes? How would you describe it?”

John searched her face. He saw the same intense, frightening eyes, but their expression was very cool. Businesslike.

“I’d say they were calmly insan—“

Without changing her expression, without looking away, without even blinking, Elena thrust the knife deep into the centre of John’s battle scar.

“Fuck! What the hell—!” John sucked air through his teeth and willed himself not to cry out any further.

Elena tilted her head just slightly, then pushed the knife deeper into John’s shoulder. Her face showed no change at all.

John tried unsuccessfully to hold back a strangled groan.

Di Corvo looked at his phone, then up at the two of them. “Elena has always been fascinated by anatomy. And by the way, you _do_ have something quite useful to offer us, Doctor Watson,” He nodded in the direction of the door. “Him.”

The door to Di Corvo's office opened and two muscular men threw Sherlock Holmes roughly onto the floor.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Dazed, Sherlock struggled to his feet. As he did so, his eyes caught John: bare-chested, handcuffed, straddled by a woman who had plunged a knife into his injured shoulder.

Sherlock didn’t even think before he leapt toward them, and that’s how he found himself awkwardly balanced mid-stride, a bloody knife under his chin.

The female assailant had been incredibly quick to pull the knife out of John’s shoulder (a sickening sucking sound, followed by John’s groan of pain) and rise up to intercept him. She’d also taken a rather large risk in assuming Sherlock would be able to stop his forward momentum in time. 

Sherlock eased back slightly. The knife followed and remained in constant contact with his throat.

He spoke in careful, measured tones. “You must be the daughter. Elena, is it?  Doctor Watson needs compression on that wound, quickly.”

Elena smiled, then snapped her fingers. “Stefano!” she ordered, “ _Aiuta il dottore_.”  A man taller than Sherlock and at least three times as broad knelt down next to John, took out a thick handkerchief, and pressed it hard against the re-opened wound.  John grimaced with the pain, but he nodded slightly in Sherlock’s direction.

“Mister Holmes,” she continued, “here you are in a room full of pistols pointed at your head, and you would choose to die by a knife soaked in the blood of your lover.  You are a poet, sir.”

Smiling, she moved the knife and ran the flat of the blade down Sherlock’s right cheek. It left a long smear of John’s blood behind it.  She wiped the rest of the blood on the lapel of Sherlock’s black suit jacket. When he winced almost imperceptibly, she slipped her free hand underneath and felt along his side and waist.

“Bruised ribs?  Not broken, though.  One of the men was enthusiastic, yes? Kicked you when you were on the ground. Hmm….. _Giuseppe, vieni_.” A medium-sized man with light-brown hair stepped forward. Elena held out her hand, never taking her eyes of Sherlock’s.  A moment later, she was holding Giuseppe's pistol.

“Pardon me for a moment, Mister Holmes,” she said.  She looked at the line of men standing along the back of the room; her eyes scanned them once, then twice, and then she pulled the trigger.  Sherlock heard a body crumple to the floor.

“ _Grazie, Giuseppe_ ,” she said, handing the gun back to its owner.  Giuseppe stepped back, and soon there followed the sounds of two men dragging a body out of the room.

Elena stroked Sherlock’s ribs again. “The one with the mole right above his eyebrow did this, yes?”  Sherlock nodded. “That is Alfonso. I should say, that _was_ Alfonso. Rather a pity, too. He was a promising second-lieutenant.”

Signor di Corvo clapped his hands together. “You see she has a natural talent, Mister Holmes. With the right tutor, she might be second only to you.  Please, please sit down. And let’s put the silly knife away, _cara_ , eh?”

Elena smirked and set the knife back on her father’s desk.  Two men brought a chair up beside John’s and pushed Sherlock down into it. As gently as possible, he noted.  Elena stood between them, one hand resting on each padded backrest.

Sherlock looked over at John. He was perspiring, and his color had drained. Blood had seeped through to the outer layer of the handkerchief, but it didn’t seem to be spreading to the edges.  The large man’s hand covered nearly all of it, and he imagined that the force of that muscular arm was providing more than adequate pressure to staunch the flow of blood. John would still need stitches and sterile bandages fairly soon.  He looked meaningfully into John’s eyes. “You alright?”

“Perfect,” John answered with a weak laugh.

“Now, Mister Holmes. I’m sure you have some idea of why I require your services. I am even willing to pay you quite handsomely, but I doubt that would be enough of an incentive. Another man might even be willing to negotiate other… forms of payment… from my lovely daughter. You, though, would not take such an interest.  Don’t be insulted, please; that is merely a statement of fact. We Italians are not such, ah, Puritans as the American and the English have often been. That men fall in love with other men is not the same scandal to us, at least not in the cosmopolitan areas.”  He smiled ingratiatingly.

“How kind of you,” Sherlock replied, trying his best not to roll his eyes, fearing John might suffer the repercussions.

He felt long, delicate fingers begin to play in his hair. He glanced to the side and saw that the other set was doing the same to John.  The large man applying pressure to John’s wound frowned very, very slightly. Interesting.

“You want me to help your daughter hone her skills.  So that you can extort money from politicians and businessmen? Find the weaknesses in other crime rings and take over their territories?  Force bank owners to give you large interest-free indefinite loans?”

Di Corvo laughed. “Oh, no, no, no. Do you think this is about money? My goodness, your opinion of me!  No, money is a..what… side-effect. Useful, but not the goal. The goal is simply influence. Power.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Power for what purpose?”

“Purpose? No, you still do not see… I am not making it clear.  Perhaps this will help?” Di Corvo opened a desk drawer and took out a small, worn novel. “ _1984_ , by your George Orwell. Your Eric Blair.  I studied it when I was away at university in your country.  This was the very copy I bought, all those years ago.  I remember,” the older man’s eyes became almost dreamy, “O’Brien’s words about why his government sought power…”

“Power,” Sherlock finished, “for the sake of power.”

“Exactly, Mister Holmes.  Money and land, even titles, they can be taken away. My parents found that out after the war. Power exists beyond those, things, however. And when power is in the proper hands, and used in the proper way, it cannot be lost, even after death.  I want to pass that kind of power on to Elena, to give her the inheritance my parents, unfortunate souls, could never give to me.”

Elena’s hands moved down and began to trace circular patterns along each man’s neck and throat.

Sherlock moved his head away involuntarily. “It would be useless to remind you that Orwell’s novel was intended as a warning? A dark parody of the ideas which came from the same war that disenfranchised your parents? You must already know this.”

“Oh, I have heard this, yes. It does not change my opinions. That is why I will ask you to help my Elena learn your skills, practice your methods, and soon there will be nobody who will dare refuse us anything. We will have the power to find their weaknesses, their secrets. They will bow to us before we even need to show them. That will be the power we wield.”

“And then? Once I have served this purpose?”

“Oh, that will be up to Elena, I am sure.  But until then, I shall be in charge of…. Encouraging your participation.”

“How, exactly?”

Di Corvo smiled. “I believe Orwell was mistaken on one point.  The pain of a loved one _can_ be more powerful than any other force.”

Sherlock glanced at John.

John closed his eyes and swallowed.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock remembered feeling the stick of a needle, then seeing someone use a hypodermic on John, and then the sick helplessness that followed as he struggled to stop the room from folding inwards and growing dark.

How long ago was that?  He tried to judge by the emptiness of his stomach, but that was a poor indicator at this point; he hadn’t eaten anything much for two days prior to letting them “capture” him.  He also felt residual nausea from the drug they’d injected into his system. 

It had been long enough to move him into a different room, bind his wrists behind his back and his ankles to the legs of a heavy chair, blindfold him and gag him.

Despite his vulnerable situation, only one thought came to his mind. John. _Where is John? What will they do to him?  How can I stop this?_

He tilted his head at the sound of the door. Light footsteps in moderately-high heels clicked in first. Obviously Elena. Then three other men and one of them… shuffling, limping… was John. He could recognize John’s breathing, smell the tang of fear in John’s sweat.

Why the blasted gag? If he could only speak, he could tell them now that they’d won. Anything they wanted, his own life, dammit… just spare John. _Please._

A light thump and a small scraping sound. They’d shoved John roughly down into a metal chair.

“Please do not worry, my dear Mr. Holmes,” Elena’s voice purred. “This is only a mild demonstration. The good doctor’s life is not in danger. And I think, actually, he will emerge from this without any major loss of blood. And most if not all of his appendages intact.  So, relax now. I won’t be able to make such a promise the next time.  Far from it.”

He could hear John’s breathing… it was controlled, slow, deep.  John was steeling himself, getting ready to withstand what would happen. And he knew John would try not to cry out or moan or even exhale too sharply.  _Dammit, that’s what they want, John.  They want you to fight it, because that way they’ll have to hurt you more to make sure I hear you._

_And I’ll have to listen harder, too._

“Now, I know Mr. Holmes can recognize you by your scent alone, John Watson, but please, just to humour me, will you tell him you’re here?  I’d like to let him hear your voice.”

John, as Sherlock predicted, remained silent.

And precisely one second later, a punch landed on bare skin. Somewhere on the torso, from the sound of it. Sherlock guessed it was a man roughly John’s weight, but a bit taller.

“Shall we try again? Doctor Watson, do you really believe Mr. Holmes prefers to hear you beaten rather than to hear you speak?  If so, we can continue for quite a while. I have many, many footsoldiers at the ready when Paolo’s fists become tired.”

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose. _Just do what she says, John. This is not a fight you can win._

Another punch. He heard John bite off a grunt of pain.

Elena’s footsteps moved nearer to Sherlock. “Misguided loyalty. Mmmmm.  I think that is one of my favourite definitions of love, really.  Poor Mr. Holmes. He thinks he’s being brave, and he’s just causing you more pain, isn’t he?  Will you have mercy on him, Doctor Watson? Just let him hear your voice this one time?”

_Please, John._

He heard John breathe in slowly.

“Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

Sherlock couldn’t help grinning just a bit around the gag.

Elena’s heels clicked as she walked away from Sherlock and closer toward John.

“There. That was kind of you, Captain John H. Watson. He will be able to hold on to the memory of those words, and it may help him stay sane.  Do you see? I am not solely focused on your destruction. There will be times when you can trust me.”

The sound of a wooden rod connecting with bare, muscled skin punctuated her last word.

“However, you will not usually know when those times are.  _Altre tre volte, Paolo_.”

Three more vicious hits rang out. John couldn’t hold back the grunts of pain.

Then Sherlock heard the swish of the rod cutting through empty space nearby. Soon, he felt droplets and on his cheek and neck.

_Blood._

_John’s blood._

“This, of course, is very rudimentary, and hardly worth our time.  You already understand that we can damage him in this way. Do you know that there are other ways, too? But you must know, yes?”

“ _Al suo collo.”_   Elena commanded. _At his neck_. Heavy footsteps walked behind John, then Sherlock heard a huffing, gasping sound. Then a more strained gasping. They were using something… the wooden rod, perhaps… to cut off John’s oxygen.

Sherlock shook his head violently, trying to work loose the blindfold or move it enough to allow him some small field of vision.  No use.  Sherlock made a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan.

“Mmmm. Your Mister Holmes is beautiful when he struggles. As you are _, Giovanni_. Now, your oxygen supply is greatly restricted, and my dear Paolo will do nothing to change that until I give him my signal. And that will happen just a few seconds after you come in my mouth, _bello_.”

The sound of a belt buckle was followed by a zip being undone. John made a strangled cry of shock, then a few attempts to gasp in more air.  Elena began her work, noisily slurping and sucking for effect.  Sherlock couldn’t tune it out, because he had to keep listening for the sound of John’s breaths. He had to hear that John was not in danger of asphyxiating.

Breathe, John. Let go. Let it happen. It doesn’t matter; just don’t let them damage you.

But John was resisting. He’d likely rather pass out than let someone force him like this just to hurt the man he loved. He could hear John’s breathing stop completely for long intervals, and he knew John was holding it, trying to force himself to black out. What if Elena kept her word? John could suffer permanent neurological damage, even lose his higher functions completely.

Sherlock couldn’t stop it, but he could do something to help.

He breathed in deeply through his nose, then used the full volume of his voice:  “Mmmmmmmmnnnnnnnhhhh…”  He made his tone languorous, erotic.

John gasped. 

Good. Yes. Breathe as much as you can, John. Listen to my voice. Imagine me, John.

“Mmmmmnnnnn…,” More want in his voice this time, more urgency. He knew the effect these sounds always had on John when they were together. More than once, he had brought John over the edge with JUST his words. Would his voice work, now?  He added a touch of whimpering. “Hhhnnnnnn!.”

John’s breathing had picked up its pace, too, as much as possible. It sounded like he might actually be getting close.  The wet, slurping and sucking sounds increased too, almost comical in their exaggeration. She was trying to put John off, make it more difficult.  But Sherlock knew John. He knew he was past the point of focusing on anything else. 

And there it was. A sharp intake of breath, and a shuddering exhale. John wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a groan or a cry. 

High-heeled shoes clicked over to Sherlock once more. Elena settled herself on his knee, and let her fingers trail up his chest, to his shoulders, and finally behind his neck, where she undid his gag and pulled it away.

Sherlock licked his dry, stretched lips.

“Oh you boys are so clever and romantic! Here, Mr. Holmes. You deserve a reward. Let me share.”

She captured his mouth with hers and kissed him deeply, making him taste John on her tongue.

When she pulled away, Sherlock waited, listening for the sound of John’s breath.

“John? Can you breathe?”

He heard John clear his throat. There was a wetness to the sound that only Sherlock would have recognized. He knew that John was holding back a more painful emotion than fear.

“Yes, Sherlock. I’m….fine.”

Elena laughed.  “I hope he is more than fine! I have gotten many compliments in the past. And from what I could feel, he did enjoy it.”

“Then I must thank you, Elena. Not everyone in a position of great influence is willing to do the legwork.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, love, and kudos to lawatsonholmes (idratherbereading) for her excellent idea regarding Sherlock's final line!


	9. Chapter 9

John sat on the floor, in the dark, leaned his head back against the wall, and allowed himself to weep silently. It was against his nature to do it, but he knew that he would need all of his emotional and physical strength to face what might come next, and holding this back would only cost him more effort later.

From time to time, he saw the light from under the door break into shadows as one of the men guarding his room paced in the hall.  John wondered if it might be the man, Paolo, who’d given him the beating earlier.  The cuts on John’s back were still bleeding on and off. He shifted to keep them from pressing too hard against the wall.  At least they’d gotten his reopened shoulder wound stitched shut and bandaged. For now, anyway.  Who could guess what that madwoman would do next.

The thought of her made him shudder again.  He didn’t care… he really, really didn’t care… about the pain or humiliation. But he hated being used as a way to torture Sherlock. And they knew he hated it. And Sherlock knew it, too. That was the point.

John had been put in this room a few hours ago and left alone since then. The one small window let in enough moonlight to throw cold shadows on the floor next to him, on the simple, rustic single bed, on the nightstand with a pitcher and basin. It could have been a budget guest room in a low-end inn, really.  No bars on the windows. Real sheets and a blanket on the bed. Even a mirror. He could break the window and jump. Or use the sheets as a rope.  For that matter, he could even try to hang himself using the sheets. Maybe smash the mirror and slit his throat.  They knew it. They knew HE knew it. And they wanted it to be clear that they knew he wouldn’t dare.

Because if he did, they’d start torturing Sherlock instead.

John was determined to hold that off as long as possible. Perhaps it wouldn’t be that long, anyway, if he’d understood Sherlock’s comment correctly.  _“Then I must thank you, Elena. Not everyone in a position of great influence is willing to do the legwork.”_

Legwork.

Was Sherlock hinting at Mycroft?

If anyone could break through the defences of Rome’s criminal underworld, Mycroft could.

Another shadow moved past his door, and low voices started speaking in Italian.  John quickly wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, but otherwise he made no move. Waste no energy was his new rule. Don’t help them break you. He’d even try to sleep when he could, though he doubted sleep would come tonight.

Footsteps retreated in the hallway.  Then a second shadow broke the tiny strip of light.  He heard the door being unlocked.

When it opened, the brighter light cast the figures… or was it one figure… into a sharp silhouette that John could barely make out before his eyes adjusted.  A tall, immensely-broad-shouldered man nearly filled the open space. Stefano, John remembered.  Stefano had been almost kind before; at least John believed it was kindness, so perhaps this was not a threatening visit? Or perhaps they were sending him to break John some more? John’s eyes trailed down the large shadowy figure and saw.. yes.. a second set of feet. Two of them. Shit.

Stefano’s deep bass voice spoke softly. “ _Cinque minuti_.”

The second man responded, “ _Capisco. Grazie_.”  That voice… oh, God…

“Sherlock?” John whispered, his own voice cracking with emotion in spite of him.

Sherlock rushed to kneel next to John, taking him his arms, kissing him gently, carefully. “I’m here, John. I’m here.”  He kissed him again. Sherlock’s hands flew quickly all over John’s body, caressing but also cataloging, examining, gathering data about his current state.

“God, I….” a rough sob cut off John’s words, and he buried his head against Sherlock’s neck. Fuck. He was a soldier, goddammit; he was going to be strong. But the relief mixed with anxiety was too much. He held Sherlock tightly, waiting for the surge of emotion to ease.

Sherlock carefully stroked John’s back, avoiding the areas that had been cut by the lashes of a wooden rod.  He spoke in soothing tones. “Mycroft knows what has happened. It’s likely he has tracked me here by now and is waiting until he can extract us safely. It has to be well-timed; the di Corvo family is rather wel-known for liquidating hostages at the first sign of danger.”

John leaned back to look at Sherlock. “You shouldn’t have come here yourself, Sherlock. You should have waited for Mycroft’s men.” John managed to keep his voice even, despite the shaking. 

He exhaled as Sherlock kissed his temple. “If I hadn’t arrived when I did, they’d have started mailing the embassy bits of you in an attempt to motivate me.”

“I’d rather have that than…” he cleared his throat, “I’d just rather you were safe.”

“John, look at me.” Sherlock took John’s face and peered deeply into his eyes. “We _will_ leave this place soon… alive, and together. In the meantime, you must focus on doing whatever you can to avoid injury. Do NOT think of my reaction. Don’t let them hurt you even more as you try to be brave for me. Is that clear?”

John closed his eyes. “It’s not possible, Sherlock. I can’t promise you that.”

“I wasn’t asking you. I was giving you an order, Captain John H. Watson of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers.”

John managed a small laugh. “Okay. Okay, Sherlock, I’ll try.”  He looked into Sherlock’s eyes again and wished he had the man’s talent for memorizing every detail of what he saw.

Sherlock pulled him into a gentle kiss, but John reached up and buried his hands in Sherlock’s curls, turning the kiss desperate and hungry. 

He heard two light taps from outside the door.

They broke the kiss and stayed for a moment, panting, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed.

“Sherlock, if you have even the slightest chance to leave here without me, just please do it. Please. I can’t… I can’t bear it if I lose you again…. d’you hear me, Sherlock?”  He knew his breaths would turn into sobs if he let them, and he fought back as much of the emotion as he could.

Stefano opened the door, but he remained facing out into the hallway.

“You won’t lose me, John. And this will be over soon.” Sherlock quickly kissed John’s forehead, eyes, and lips. “I love you.”  He stood up quickly and crossed to the door before John could catch him to pull him back.

And then the door closed again, and Sherlock was gone.

John breathed in and out deeply.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Then he hugged one arm to his chest, clamped his other hand tightly over his own mouth, pressed his eyes shut, and wept until he lost consciousness.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock ran both hands through his dark curls as he and the huge Stefano walked back down the hallway and up a narrow flight of stairs to the room where Sherlock was being held by the di Corvo family.

Unlike the hall outside John’s “cell,” this one remained in shadow, illuminated only by the moonlight from windows at each end.

His jailors were not particularly concerned about attempts at escape, after all.

Stefano opened the door, and Sherlock walked in, stood motionless in the darkness, and waited until he heard the lock click behind him.

He remained still and silent, waiting.

“How is our dear soldier? Healing up? Physically at least?” Elena raised one shapely knee as she stretched languorously on the plush double bed.

Without acknowledging her question, Sherlock removed his fitted black jacked and laid it over a nearby chair. Even in the pale moonlight filtering in, he could tell she was watching him hungrily. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled back his sleeves.

Elena swung her legs over the edge of the bed near Sherlock, and stood up.

Immediately, Sherlock stepped toward her and gave her a violent shove back onto the bed. She tried to rise up on her elbows but found that Sherlock was already kneeling above her, his hands bracketing her shoulders, one knee between hers.

“Your father wants you under my tutelage. Therefore, I think the lessons will begin now.” Sherlock sat back on his knees and held up his hands, palms forward. “Tell me. Right now. What do you deduce about me merely from the state of my hands.”

One of Elena’s eyebrows quirked up, and she grinned. “You play the violin..”

She was rewarded with a brutally-hard slap across the face.

“Boring. Not worth my time. Everyone knows that. Use your mind, Signorina Di Corvo. You have one, do you not?”

Sherlock watched Elena’s expression change from surprise to anger to desire… and then to challenge. He knew this game was dangerous, and he wanted to keep it on his terms as long as he could.

Her eyes swept over Sherlock’s left hand. “You have not played in nearly a month. The indentations from the strings are visible, barely, but beginning to heal.”

“And why have I not played in a month?”

Elena sighed, “Really, this is quite beneath me..”

Sherlock raised his hand to strike her again, but she caught his wrist just in time.

“You sprained this wrist. Perhaps you chased a large, angry man who bent it back much too far..” Elena demonstrated, narrowing her eyes as Sherlock winced . She laughed and released her grip.

“Better.” He said, his voice calm, expressionless. “What else?”

“Your right thumb.”

Sherlock leaned in close and swept his right thumb along Elena’s bottom lip. “Explain.”

She smiled. “The calluses are not normal for a violinist of your… stature…” She took his thumb into her mouth and sucked hard.

“And why is that?” Sherlock pushed his thumb deeper toward her throat before pulling it away, creating an awkward pop! In the otherwise quiet room.

Elena licked her lips. “It is because, my dear Mister Holmes, you don’t always hold your bow correctly.”

“Yes. I have been told as much.”

Long, red nails dragged their way along Sherlock’s arm, found his neck, and began to circle a small newly-forming bruise.

“Ah. Look at this. He misses you, and he is so scared, poor creature. He’ll not show me that.... at least he thinks he will not. Now. Is my lesson finished?”

Sherlock took Elena’s wrists and pinned them to the mattress above her head. His lips hovered above hers.

“Your lesson …has not begun, Signorina. This was merely to assure me that you can understand when I tell you what you must already know.”

Elena writhed, delighted, underneath him, moving herself against the slim but muscled thigh between her own. “Mmmm… and what is it I must already know, my dear tutor?”

Sherlock’s lips moved over to Elena’s ear. He held his body up and away from hers as much as possible.

“You must know,” he began, his voice even deeper and more velvety than usual “what happens to any man or woman who intentionally harms John Watson.”

“Oh, yes? These persons who harm our poor soldier… do you punish them?” Elena arched her body so that she made contact with Sherlock’s from their shoulders to their thighs.

“It is not a matter of punishment.”

“No? Li consegna alla giustizia?? They receive justice?”

Sherlock moved to her other ear, holding her wrists even more firmly. “ _Muoiono. Senza eccezione_ ”

He received no reply other than a huff of amusement.

“In your mind and heart, you know this, Elena. You know you will die for what you have done to him.” Sherlock rose up to meet her eyes, but he continued to press down, keeping her arms still. “There is no point providing you with lessons.”

“No?” she almost giggled.

“No. You will not live long enough to make use of them. That I can promise you.”

This time Elena answered with a full-throated laugh.

Sherlock smiled, released Elena's hands and drew her up into a semi-seated position. "I admit, however, that your death will be a considerable loss, Elena." He brushed a tendril of her hair away from her forehead and let his fingers continue to trail down her jawline, to her neck, and along her collarbone. His eyelids closed halfway, and he swallowed.

Elena moved in even closer. "Oh, yes?" she purred. "You will miss me when I am dead?"

Sherlock moved tentatively toward her, his eyes focused on her parted lips, then, in a lightning-quick motion, he pulled his head backward before slamming it full-force into hers.

She fell, limp and bloodied, back onto the bed.

Sherlock stood and wiped a spot of her blood from his brow.

"No, Miss di Corvo. Not in the least."

He picked up his jacket from the chair, pulled it on, and removed a small piece of mirror from inside the pocket.

Sherlock walked to the door and tapped lightly three times, then once more.

Stefano entered, pistol at the ready.

" _Non e' necessario, Stefano_."

The huge man nodded, walked over to the bed, and scooped the unconscious woman up into his arms as though she were no more than a drowsy cat.

Sherlock stood the window and held the piece of mirror up to reflect the moonlight. He whispered over his shoulder, " _Aspetta... due secondi._ "

Within two seconds, a small flash of reflected moonlight appeared from the shadows on the ground.

Sherlock placed his mirror back in his pocket, then nodded at Stefano. " _Andiamo._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La giustizia, allora? = Justice, then?  
> Muoiono. Senza eccezione = They die. Without exception.  
> Non e' necessario = It's not necessary  
> Aspetta... due secondi = Wait... two seconds  
> Andiamo = Let's go.
> 
> I studied briefly in Italy, but I am not a native speaker, so I am happy to go back and edit if any Italian speakers have suggestions for corrections or improvements!
> 
> BIG THANKS and LOVE to lawatsonholmes for suggesting Sherlock's method of incapacitating Elena.


	11. Chapter 11

Two men dragged John roughly to his feet before he was even fully awake.  For a moment, he was back in Afghanistan, being held by a local self-professed “warlord” who ended up, unofficially of course, forming the bottom of a six-foot-long asphalt-covered patch in a road a few miles from the main town.  But that ending had nothing to do with what the bastard had done to John and the other soldiers; war was hell, after all. No, it was dealt in retribution for the many visits the large, dark man enjoyed paying to underage daughters of terrified villagers receiving his special “protection.”  Dealing justice to the scum was decidedly not according to procedure or in compliance with official orders.  And John had never felt the slightest twinge of guilt.

In fact, the memory of that little bit of road made John grin, even in his half-awake state.

And then the grin was abruptly, violently, slapped off of his face.

“Right,” he muttered. His brain snapped to alertness, and he tried to ignore the pains shooting through his arms, legs, shoulder, back, and ribs as he half-walked, half-stumbled down a flight of stairs and outside into the dark, cool night.

John stole a glance up at the sky and tried to determine what time it must be. After midnight, he guessed, but beyond that he couldn’t be sure. How long had it been since Sherlock had visited him?  The lump in his throat returned, and the tears welled up in his eyes, unbidden.

_Stop it. You can’t afford that now. Just…. Breathe.  Keep yourself alive.  You promised him you’d live._

Ten minutes later, they entered a large shed. Well, a small barn, really. It had been fitted with electric lights, but other than that looked as it must have looked for the previous five decades. Various farming and animal-husbandry implements hung neatly along the walls or lay on small shelves built into one of the corners. 

“For Heaven’s sake, I should think they would shut the doors, Doctor Watson.” Signor di Corvo gestured to one of the men escorting John in, and soon the door was pulled shut behind them. “Cool and damp as it is, and you still with no shirt. Tactless. Well, these men are not chosen for their intellect or class, are they?  We must be patient with the lesser folk.”  The older man sat down in a wooden folding chair next to a small pine table.  Despite the hour, he was fully dressed, and wore a long camel-coloured wool overcoat, turned up a bit against the chill.  He poured some brandy into one of two glasses set out beside him.  “Please, Doctor. Join me in a brandy, for medicinal purposes. It will put some colour back in your sallow cheeks.”

John thought of at least five different responses or actions, but he settled on the path of least resistance. Stay alive.  He shook his head politely and answered, “Kind of you, but no, thank you. Sir.”  John did his best to hide the disgust he felt at the last syllable. Don’t give them any reason to hurt you more than they intend to already.

A shiver ran down his spine.

“As you wish, then.” Di Corvo took a sip and savoured it a moment before swallowing it down. “Now. My lovely daughter was expected to meet me tonight after her…. Session… with you and Mr. Holmes.  She did not arrive at the appointed time.  And then I hear that you had an unscheduled visit from our good detective earlier this evening. Is this true?”

He smiled benevolently at John, as if they were chatting about nothing of any importance.

John held his gaze, but attempted to keep anything like challenge out of his eyes or voice. “Yes. He spoke to me for…five minutes, I think. Then he left. I don’t know where he went, Sir.”

“Ah. And did he, perhaps tell you of any plans he might have made regarding your, well, let us call it your departure?”

John heard the door open and close behind him, and many more footsteps enter, but he did not turn to look. There was also the sound of something rustling, a leather jacket, perhaps.

“No, Sir. He only wanted to check on my health and---“

_CRACK!_

John fell to his knees, gasping, as the tail of a leather horsewhip sliced across his back.

Di Corvo set down his glass.

“Doctor Watson, that was hardly wise, was it?  Did you not think I would know the true answer?”

Fighting to keep his torso upright, struggling to recover his breath after the shock, John shook his head again. “Then why,” he asked, his voice a bit strangled, “did you bother to ask me?”

This time, John heard the brief whistling sound of the whip slicing the air before it connected again with his bare skin.  He tried to steel himself for the blow, but it did little good.  Without willing it, he was leaning forward onto his hands, trying to fight back the pain – and fight the urge to turn and attack, guns or no guns. But he’d promised Sherlock.  He’d promised…

“When Mister Holmes visited you, did he mention my daughter?”

John made himself look directly into di Corvo’s eyes. “No.”

“Good. You are telling the truth. Very good.  Did he mention an escape plan, Doctor Watson?”

After a ragged breath, John answered, keeping his eyes and expression serious, but open. “He mentioned escape,….. that we would escape soon, he thought, but he didn't mention he had any plan. He told me… not to die if I could help it.”

Di Corvo smiled. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him to leave me behind if he got the chance.”

The older man nodded in approval. “As you should. As a soldier, and as a doctor, and as his lover, yes.”  He took another sip of brandy and looked off into the distance, thoughtful. “I might have said much the same to Elena’s mother, those first years when we were in love.  Of course, I was always quite protective of her.  Do you know she gave birth to Elena only a few weeks after her very own thirteenth birthday? Ah, but she was a lovely child, my Vittoria. So beautiful. So delicate and helpless.”

John felt his gorge beginning to rise at the thought of it.

“Oh, Doctor Watson, please do not think me a monster. Vittoria grew to love me a great deal, I assure you. Ours was a beautiful affair. If only she’d survived to adulthood. But these things are beyond our control, are they not?”  He took another sip, and shook his head as if to clear the memories.

“Now. Your Mister Holmes has absconded somewhere, I believe. And my daughter is nowhere to be found, either.  That makes one wonder…”

“Maybe she kidnapped him. Again, I mean,” John offered.

“That is a possibility. She was quite taken with his looks. Well, as you know, I’m sure.” He glanced at the fine timepiece on his wrist. “I should think another hour at most before one of them finds us here. Now. What can we do to pass the time?  Have you any experience with farming, Doctor Watson?”

“Not… not beyond basic gardening. Carrots and lettuce. That sort of thing.” For some reason, John was beginning to tremble. He could feel – and see- a trickle of blood running down the muscles on the inside and backs of his arm.  And when had he eaten last?  Fatigue, some blood loss, lack of food.  Oh, the head injury. Any or all of those things could explain it.

“I must admit that I know very little. Embarrassing, as I am the owner of this estate, and several others like it. Now, I do know that ONE of those implements up there was used to castrate the horses.  A farmer usually prefers a gelding as a plow horse.  _Allora, Giuseppe. Quello_.” He pointed to a fairly large clamp-like instrument that contained a blade within its open jaws.

Giuseppe retrieved it and held it out for di Corvo to inspect. “Yes. I have always wondered exactly how these functioned. It appears to restrict the blood flow completely before the final cut is made, but I’ve never seen it used.”  He handed it back to the younger man and waved him over to stand next to John.

Now John was shaking, no question. And if he’d had anything in his stomach, he would have vomited it up right there.

_Sherlock, where the hell are you?  This wasn’t part of my promise.  I never, ever promised you this. I will end it before I let them use that bloody thing._

_Forgive me._

John took a deep breath, then he launched himself at Giuseppe, pulling him to the ground and wrestling the terrifying implement out of his hands.  He sat up, took the handles and managed to swing it wide and hard enough to catch the other man right behind the ear.

Giuseppe collapsed fully onto the straw floor and was perfectly still.

Pistols clicked behind John and beside him, but no one attempted to take him by the arm or press the muzzle of a gun against his head.  They merely let him stand there, breathing heavily, staring at the Signore.

“Shoot me if you want,” John yelled over his shoulder, not concerned in the least that very few of them understood his words. “But get close enough to touch me, and I _will_ use this.”  He turned just a few degrees to look back at them, and he held up the device, opened it, and snapped it shut again forcefully.

One of the younger men holding a pistol took a half-step backward.

The door opened, and a familiar, velvet voice joined the conversation.

“John, I believe you actually would. Though I hope not for its originally-intended purpose. It seems to work well enough as a blunt instrument.”

Every armed man turned to take aim at the person walking in the door.

John’s knees nearly gave way, but he somehow forced himself to keep standing. He didn’t dare speak, though. Didn’t dare say the name that was forming on his lips.

“Mister Holmes!” Di Corvo clapped his hands gleefully.  “You found us so quickly! Or is it my dear daughter I have to thank?” He looked past Sherlock’s shoulder to see who might walk in next.

Instead of a slender young woman, however, he saw a massive, muscular man carrying something over his shoulder.

“Your daughter was in no condition to seek out you or anyone else.  In fact, she’s only been conscious for the past ten minutes.”

Stefano dropped the tightly-bound and gagged Elena onto the floor, where she landed with an undignified thud.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of the Afghan "warlord" and his fate is taken from another work of mine entitled "Paid" http://archiveofourown.org/works/329045


	12. Chapter 12

“Elena?” Signor di Corvo looked at his bound daughter who was writhing in an attempt to sit up. 

Sherlock stilled her by stepping on her hair, pinning her head to the straw floor of the barn. She responded with an angry growl-like sound from behind her gag

“I’ve brought her here as proof that this is over, Signor di Corvo.  In fact, you should find a new message on your phone any moment now.” 

Di Corvo glared at Sherlock, then retrieved the phone from the pocket of his camel-coloured overcoat.

“Is the message from one Mycroft Holmes?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

John looked back and forth between the controlled rage in each man’s eyes. He could feel his heart pounding harder; in one part of his mind, he assessed the tactical risks of attacking the six armed men in the small area. How many could he disable before they wounded him or killed him?  How could he be sure that none of them shot Sherlock during all of it? His soldier’s mind played out various scenarios as he tightened his grip on the large clamp-like instrument he’d wrested from a would-be attacker moments ago.

Sherlock kept his voice even, calm. “And what does the message say?”

Through clenched teeth, the older man responded, “It says, ‘Big Brother is Watching You.’”

Within seconds, they could hear the shup shup shup of helicopters approaching.  The doors opened, and men wearing British Special Forces uniforms burst in, pointing automatic rifles at di Corvo and his men.

“Drop your weapons! Hands on your heads! NOW!” their leader shouted.  After the briefest hesitation, di Corvo nodded, and his men began to comply with the order.

“I should hope you have quite a few of these associates, Mister Holmes. You must know that this compound houses nearly a hundred of my footsoldiers.”

“Ninety-three, was that the count, Sergeant Preston?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, sir. Most are being processed now. There were a few casualties on their side.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.  You may take these men to join the survivors. Or take all but one, I should say.”

Sherlock held out a hand, and the huge Stefano placed a pistol in it.

“ _Dov' e’ Paolo_?” Sherlock asked. 

One of the men, about John’s size, perhaps just a bit taller, looked up for a moment, then turned away quickly.  John recognized him as the man who’d beaten him earlier at Elena’s behest.  He also saw the horsewhip at this man’s feet.

“John,” Sherlock asked calmly, “is this the man who beat you when I was bound and blindfolded?”

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and nodded.

A shot rang out, and Paolo dropped to the floor, a bullet wound right below his eye.

Sergeant Preston and his men began to lead the others out. Giuseppe, still unconscious after being hit with the business end of the clamp John held, was dragged along by one of his colleagues.

One muscular British soldier approached di Corvo and reached out to take him by the arm.

“Leave him.” Sherlock commanded.

The soldier looked at Sergeant Preston, saw his commanding officer’s nearly imperceptible signal of approval, and he moved back to join his comrades.

“I’ll be outside for approximately ten minutes, communicating with HQ, Mister Holmes.” Preston said.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” replied Sherlock coolly.

John watched the others leave.  Now he and Sherlock were the only living people in the building other than di Corvo, the effectively helpless Elena, and Stefano.  He sensed that this was bound to change fairly soon.

Sherlock leveled his pistol at di Corvo’s heart. “Now, Signore. I shall offer you a kindness you did not offer to me.  I have here the one thing I imagine you are able to love.  Most likely, you would prefer that she not suffer.  Therefore, I will allow you to decide which of you should be shot first.”

“Hah. You are bluffing once again, Mister Holmes.  This Big Brother of yours may have influence, but he cannot be powerful enough to allow you to murder foreign civilians with no consequence. You would spend the rest of your days in prison merely to avenge a few marks on your lover’s body?  A lifetime apart? I shouldn’t think so.”

“Sherlock,” John said softly, “He’s right. Just...  leave them to Mycroft. It isn’t worth it. They aren’t worth it.”

The pistol in Sherlock’s hands did not waver. Neither did his cold gaze, locked, now, with that of Signor di Corvo. 

“Do you remember what I promised you in the catacombs, John? I promised you that I would find you.  I also promised you that I would kill every last one of them who hurt you.  I have kept the first promise.  I shall keep the other.”

John dropped what he was holding, and he took a step forward, placing himself in between Sherlock and his target.  “Sherlock. I’m serious.  Let them rot in prison, not you. Come home with me.  You promised I wouldn’t lose you again.”  He hoped only Sherlock could hear the pleading and fear in his voice.  For a moment, John looked down at Elena. She had ceased trying to free herself or move. Her eyes appeared glassy, dazed, as if she were mentally and emotionally withdrawn from the entire situation.

“Move, please, John.” Sherlock said.  “Or I will have Stefano move you.”

John looked over, and up, to meet Stefano’s eyes.  He saw the same hardness there as in Sherlock’s.  The big man took a step toward John, and John instinctively shifted backward.

Di Corvo lunged forward and wrapped an arm around John’s neck.  From the pocket of his long coat, he produced an expensive-looking but still very sharp knife; he dug the point of it forcefully just under John’s jaw against the throbbing of John’s pulse.

“I do not need much effort, or indeed much time, to end his life. And the more you struggle, Doctor Watson, the deeper you lodge the blade, so keep that in mind.  So. How shall we proceed?  I want my life and my daughter’s.  You want his. Use your clever mind to find a solution.”  He increased the pressure against John’s throat.  John closed his eyes for a moment.

“Stefano,” John said.  The big man looked at him. John looked at Sherlock, then looked at the door.  He didn’t dare move his head just yet, so he hoped his eyes explained what he needed.  

 _Please,_ John thought. _Please. Get him out of here. Get him out and keep him safe. Don’t let him see this._

Stefano’s mouth frowned and then formed a thin line.  He moved toward Sherlock and reached for the pistol.

“No.” Sherlock said. His hands had been trembling with rage, and now they trembled with fear. It was the only reason he hadn’t dared take a shot with John so near his target.

Stefano grasped Sherlock’s slender wrist and easily stripped the handgun from him.

Then in a movement that seemed impossibly rapid, impossibly graceful, he twisted his large frame, pointed the gun at di Corvo’s head, and fired a single shot.

The knife fell away from John’s throat.

Di Corvo collapsed heavily onto the ground behind him.

John swayed for a moment, then drew in a sharp breath and steadied himself. With the instincts bred from years of medical training, he dropped to one knee and checked for a pulse.  “He’s dead,” John confirmed.

Elena began to thrash at Sherlock’s feet. An eerie, strangled scream gurgled up from her throat, past the gag in her mouth, and soon filled the small room, only stopping for a few seconds at a time as she gasped frantically for breath.

“ _Stefano. Dammi quello, per favore_.”  Sherlock reached out one last time for the gun.  Elena began beating her bound hands against Sherlock’s legs, kicking out at empty space, wrenching her head in an attempt to free her hair from underneath Sherlock’s feet.

Stefano looked at John, then handed the gun to Sherlock.

John moved over, closer, but not close enough to be in range of the flailing limbs. “Sherlock, I think we should let the military handle this.  She’s obviously insane, and… well, god knows what he may have done to her to make her this way.  Her mother was a just  a child the man raped…”

A louder scream broke from Elena’s throat, and she managed to get an elbow jab right into Sherlock’s left shin.

Sherlock responded with a swift, brutal kick to her spine.

Despite everything,  John winced and frowned in disapproval. “Come on. Come on, Sherlock, let’s… let’s just leave her, all right?”

Sherlock drew back and kicked her again, this time between her shoulder blades. John was sure he heard bones crack.

“STOP it, Sherlock!  For God’s sake she can’t even fight back! It’s over! She can’t hurt us –“

John took two steps closer and tried to catch Sherlock by the elbow. Before he could, Sherlock moved aside and pointed at Stefano, then at John.  John was stopped by two massive arms encircling him, pinning his own arms to his sides and his back flat up against a broad, muscular chest.

“You may close your eyes or look away, John.”

“Sherlock-“

“NO!  No more! No pleading for this, this, creature’s life.  She hurt you, John!  She sexually assaulted you! And without a doubt, she would have done far worse than that before she finally killed you.” Sherlock’s chest was heaving with anger.  “I will not.. I WILL NOT… allow that!”

 He took a half step back, rocked onto one heel, then put his whole body into one swift,  vicious kick to the back of Elena’s head.

The screaming and the writhing stopped.  Elena lay on her side, nearly face-down, motionless but for her labored breathing.

John set his jaw, drew in long breath through his nose, and looked past Sherlock’s shoulder, toward the door.

Two shots rang out in quick succession.

John furrowed his brow, swallowed, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to lean back against the wall of muscle behind him. For some reason, his legs were done trying to keep him upright. He found that he didn’t particularly care, either.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was standing in front of him, his own verdigris eyes wet with emotion.

“NOW it’s over, John.”  He swallowed before continuing, “I hope you will find it in yourself to forgive me. Eventually. I had to do this.”

John closed his eyes again, and he let out a long, weary breath. 


	13. Chapter 13

Seventy-two hours later, Sherlock paced around a small but lavishly-decorated office and looked out the window for the tenth time at the partial view of the Coliseum. 

“Are we done?  It’s over, Mycroft. I’ve given the authorities everything they need. Now take us HOME.”  He straightened his shoulders, composed his features and added, “Please.”

Mycroft folded back the morning’s copy of _il Giornale_ and looked up to meet his brother’s eyes.

“You’ve given the authorities quite a bit more than they need, as you can imagine.  Thus far, they have been very cooperative.”  He returned to scanning the newspaper.  “And we have been very generous.”

“How soon can I see him?” Sherlock asked, his voice somewhere between a whine and a growl.

“Soon.  The doctors expect to release him today.  A car will be waiting to take him to the hotel.” Mycroft frowned slightly and turned the page.

Sherlock whisked the newspaper away and threw it onto the ground.

“YOU could do something. YOU could get me in there past those inept doctors and that moronic security detail. I need to see him, Mycroft!”

Both men stared at each other for several seconds before Mycroft spoke.

“I HAVE done something, Sherlock, I think you’ll find. He is alive. You are also alive.  And as far as getting you past the hospital security, well, let’s say the situation would be different if John’s requests were involved.”

“What?” Sherlock barked.

Mycroft folded his hands, and kept a placid expression. “He hasn’t asked for you.”

Sherlock’s head snapped back as if he’d been struck in the face.

**

Six more hours passed before Sherlock heard John’s footsteps in the hallway outside their hotel room.  He ran a hand through his dark curls and forced himself to stand still, forced himself not to leap at the door, not to fling himself onto John and press him against the wall, not to devour him, hold him, beg his forgiveness.

John came in, his coat draped loosely over his shoulders, his left arm bound up in a sling.

He nodded a greeting.  “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s mind and body were screaming, but he forced out a calm breath. “John.”

John set down a small satchel containing his belongings, painkillers, antibiotics.  He looked calmly at Sherlock.  “No chance of tea, I guess?”  He smiled, but it was a weak, hollow smile. A false smile.

“I ordered room service as soon as Mycroft alerted me that you were on the way.  It should arrive shortly.”

“Ah. Thanks.” John looked away for a moment, then met Sherlock’s gaze again.  The blue-grey eyes were tired, worried, and what hurt Sherlock the most, closed-off.  “That was thoughtful of you.”

“John,”  Sherlock didn’t know how much longer he could will himself not to explode.

“Can we just NOT, Sherlock?  Let’s not, all right? We’re here. We’re alive. So, let’s leave it at that for now.”

A light knock at the door let them know that the _servizio in camera_ had arrived with the tea.

Both men stood in uncomfortable silence as the tea service and a few small sandwiches were set out on the dining table of their well-appointed room.  Sherlock signed a slip of paper without looking at it and waited until the hotel staff had left and closed the door behind them.

John winced in pain as he shrugged off his jacket. Sherlock reached out to take it, but John turned away and set it on the back of a chair.

“You eating?” John asked as he sat down and looked over the sandwiches.  “The case is done, I assume?”

“No.”

John looked up. “No, you’re not eating, or no, you’re not done?”

Sherlock bit his lower lip in frustration, drew back his dark jacket to put his hands on his hips. “I’m not eating. And this case is not done.”

John nodded, raised his eyebrows, and attempted to pour a cup of tea with his one free hand.  He huffed and put the teapot down again.

“This bloody thing,” he pulled at the neck strap of the sling holding his left arm.  “It’s unnecessary. I told them that, but do you think they’d listen to a fellow doctor?”  He tilted his head and started to pull the sling over and off.

Instinctively, Sherlock stepped closer and took hold of one end of the strap in order to assist him.  When his fingertips brushed the skin on John’s neck, John’s free right hand flew up and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist.

“No!” John said, much too loudly. The sound echoed against the walls.

His eyes met Sherlock’s, and this time, John’s were far from closed-off or guarded. They were burning with anger and with something else Sherlock did not want to identify.

John’s fingers closed tighter on Sherlock’s wrist.  “Stop trying to help me,” he warned.

“John, I only -“

“I’m not fucking HELPLESS, damn you!”

He pulled Sherlock’s arm harder, dragging him lower, off balance, close to John’s face. Sherlock put his other hand out to steady himself, and John grabbed that wrist, too, as the sling fell to the floor.

Sherlock hovered at that awkward angle, arms captive, face close enough to John’s lips to feel the man’s rapid breaths.

“No, John. You are not. But I _am_ helpless.”

“Yeah,” John scoffed, “You looked very helpless, didn’t you.” He pushed Sherlock away, released his grip, and stood up.  “I’m going to get some rest. My flight leaves early in the morning.”

“YOUR flight?”

“Yes. I need to get home.”

“Mycroft will get us flight just as soon we’re finished here.”

“Then, he can get YOU a flight. I’m already finished here.”

Sherlock reached out and put a hand on John’s arm. “John, please.”

“Please what? Are you going to move out of my way?”

Neither man moved aside. Sherlock took a half-step closer. “No.”

“Right.”  John pursed his lips, clenched and unclenched his hands, and then grabbed the edge of the table and violently threw it over.

Tea, dishes, food flew into the air and landed on the carpets or on the small sofa.  John reached down, picked up an unbroken mug and hurled it across the room so that it shattered against the opposite wall. “Get OUT of my way. Now!” he commanded. 

The veins were standing out on his forehead, and his chest was rising and falling rapidly.

Sherlock stood his ground. “I’m not moving.”

John let out a quick, humourless laugh. “Oh you are going to move, you smug bastard.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and lifted him, bending himself backward to force Sherlock's feet off of the floor. Sherlock's torso pitched forward, over John's right shoulder, and he grabbed at John's back to keep upright. Beneath his hands, he could see small blooms of blood coming through the light, checked shirt. Stitches were ripping open.

In only four strides, John was at the edge of the bed. He heaved Sherlock onto it and climbed up as well, straddling Sherlock's hips, fists clenching the lapels of Sherlock's jacket.

"Listen, damn you. I could have ended it at that place. I could have fought back. Hell, I might even have taken out the old man myself, but I didn’t. I LET them do those things to me. I LET them humiliate me and torture me, Sherlock, because of YOU. Because YOU asked me for that, you selfish bastard!” 

Sherlock raised one knee until his foot could find leverage on the mattress.

“And you know what? I didn’t like it, but at least I could understand. Right? That’s why I held on as long as I did. And then you came in there at the end, got to be the hero. Was that nice for you? You enjoy that? Because let me tell you, I wasn’t too keen on being the only sane person in the room, trying to keep your arrogant arse alive, while you treated me your fucking damsel in distress!

John pulled Sherlock up off of the bed, shook him once, hard, then pushed him back down and leaned on him.

“After all of that, you STILL ignored the one thing I asked. I asked you, Sherlock, to leave with me. Just walk out. But you couldn’t do that. No, you had to attack and kill a mentally-ill woman who was defenseless and no longer a threat to you or me. You let me beg for her life, after everything she’d done to me, and then you just fucking killed her.”

“She wasn’t just mentally ill, John; she was a monster. She HURT you. She hurt you nearly as much as…” Sherlock stopped, unable to finish.

John let go and sat back a bit, still breathing heavily.  “Nearly as much as what?”

Sherlock felt the tears welling in his eyes, the pain and tightness in his throat. He forced himself to say the words, anyway.

“She hurt you nearly as much as I did, John.  That’s why I killed her.  That’s why I nearly kicked her to death before I shot her.  I wasn’t punishing her; I was punishing me.”

“What are you talking about?” John furrowed his brow, his expression still angry.

Sherlock ran the back of one hand across his eyes. “I saw myself in her, John. Everything I’ve made you suffer: the bombs, the hallucinations, my death…the lies and the pain. I wanted to lash out at it.  I wanted to lash out at myself for hurting you.  I wanted to kill myself, John.  But I knew doing that would only torment you further. Please, just try to understand. It was my body I was brutalizing. I was my head I blew apart. That’s why I shot twice, John. Only one shot was for her.” He closed his eyes and let the tears fall from the corners and run down past his temples and into the sheets below.

He heard John’s breathing slow down, heard him clear his throat. “Sherlock… what in HELL is wrong with you?  Jesus...” John ran a thumb over the crest of Sherlock’s cheek, then pressed his palm against the side of his wet face. Sherlock turned his head to lean into the touch, but still did not open his eyes.

“You need to stop torturing us both over that, okay?” There was a waver in John’s voice, and the anger had gone from it. “It’s over. Done.”

“No, John. I can never be over. Every time you put your life or your body in danger because of me… I feel it again.  I hate myself again, and each time a bit more.”

John’s body moved closer, and John kissed Sherlock’s forehead, then his eyes, then his cheek. “That is unacceptable, Consulting Detective. I will not allow you to treat my lover like this.  I will stop you.”

A frustrated laugh left Sherlock’s lips. “I wish you could do that.”

John’s mouth moved against Sherlock’s ear. “Watch me.”

He sat up again. “No, really, Sherlock. Look at me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and watched John unbutton and remove his checked shirt. There was a gauze bandage taped over the scarred shoulder. John set his jaw, then pulled it off, discarding it on the floor.  He pulled Sherlock’s fingers up to feel the raised lines left from an Afghan sniper.

“YOU did not cause this.”  He moved Sherlock’s fingers over to the new stitches in the middle of the healed scar. “And you did not cause this. Repeat after me, Sherlock. Let me hear you say the words. ‘I did not cause this’ – do it.”

“John, it was my fault you were-“

“Do as I tell you.” John said in a stern voice. “Say it.”

Sherlock repeated the words in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. “I did not cause this.”

“Louder. Like you mean it.”

After a deep breath, Sherlock tried again. “I did not cause this.”

“That’s right.”  John moved Sherlock’s hand behind to feel the stitches, some of them now bleeding again, on John’s back.  “These. You did NOT cause these. Tell me. Now.”

“I did not…I did not cause these.”  Sherlock’s tears continued to flow, but he held John’s gaze despite the clouds in his vision.

Now John took both of Sherlock’s hands, and pressed them over his heart.

“You broke this once, Sherlock. Maybe even more than once, but you fixed it.  What do you feel there right now?”

“Your heartbeat, John.”

“YOU caused that. You made it start again. D’you understand? You are why my heart is still beating. Hell, you’re why it’s beating like it’s going to come out of my chest half the time. YOU keep my heart beating. Say it.”

Sherlock swallowed down a sobbing sound, then answered. “I keep your heart beating.”

“You caused this.”

The beats grew more rapid under Sherlock’s fingers. “Yes. I caused this.”

John moved their hands lower, past his abdomen, down to his growing erection.

“And you certainly, most definitely, caused this.”

Sherlock smiled, even as a teardrop rolled down his face.  “Yes, I should hope I did.”

John bent down and kissed away the tears that were left. “Christ, Sherlock, do you know how much I want you? Right now?”

“You’ll aggravate your injuries, John. I don’t think –“

“Then don’t think. Stop thinking. And sod the injuries. I’m a doctor; I can tend to them myself if need be.”

He kissed Sherlock deeply, hungrily, then moved aside so Sherlock’s lower half was free again.  “Take off your clothes.”

Sherlock smiled broadly, wiped his face, and sat up, shucking his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt as quickly as possible.  John freed himself from belt, trousers, and boxers, then got on his knees behind Sherlock, caressing the taut chest and abdomen, kissing that neck and those shoulders, as Sherlock fumbled with his own zip.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John muttered between kisses. “Don’t delete that, okay?”

Sherlock slipped out of his trousers and pants, and he shifted backwards to the center of the bed. John moved on top of him, kissing and biting, stroking Sherlock’s beautiful hips and thighs. Sherlock still felt unsure of where to touch. So much of John’s back was covered in bruises, barely-healed cuts, stitches. He let his hands ghost over them, barely making contact. Finally, he buried his fingers in John’s short, sandy hair.

Every thrust of John’s hips brought Sherlock closer and closer to the edge. He could feel John getting close, too, just from the skin-to-skin contact. He felt he should try to hold on, try to keep this from ending too soon, but his mind and his body were almost beyond his control. John was here, with him, loving him. Alive, and safe. Not leaving. His.

“God, Sherlock, I love you. Jesus!” John’s hips increased pressure and pace, and his face contorted with the strain of holding back.

Sherlock bucked his hips into John’s, bent his neck to place his lips right beside John’s ear, “I love you, John. Only you. Just you.”

Within a matter of seconds, they were both panting, spent, but still clinging tightly to each other.

“John, you should… you should let me help you see to those wounds…on your back.” Sherlock said, still gasping for breath.

John pulled Sherlock even closer. “Not now.  I’m not letting you go again anytime soon.” He kissed Sherlock softly once more.

 

 


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue - Back home in London, John and Sherlock try to get back to normal life, but their ordeal has left other, unseen scars on John.

John picked up his pace as he saw Sherlock round the corner and dart into the side alley.  Damn those long legs; the lanky bastard was already more than ten seconds ahead of him, and he’d probably try to take down the thugs himself, unarmed.

He turned down the alley and skidded to a halt, barely stopping himself in time to avoid falling against Sherlock and the assailant who was holding a knife to Sherlock’s long, white throat.

“Oi! Give it over!  ‘E says YOU still have it.” The muscular man pulled Sherlock backward and down a bit more, and John saw the knife press harder.

John put one hand up, and struggled mightily to catch his breath. “Wait….,” he gasped, barely able to breathe out the words; “Yes…..  just…..”

He bent forward and put both hands on his knees, huffing and panting, sucking down as much air as he could get.

“Fuck’s sake, granddad, I ain’t got all bloody night.”

John nodded, still bent double, and reached into his jacket pocket with his left hand.  His other hand folded into a fist, drew back powerfully, and struck the attacker full force in the groin.

The knife clattered to the ground. Its owner fell down with a heavy thud few centimetres away.

John rolled him onto his stomach and pinned the meaty arm painfully high up on the broad back.

“DO I still have it, Sherlock?”  he asked, turning his head to look up into pale, smiling eyes.

Sherlock rubbed his throat and grinned.  “Oh, yes. John.  You most certainly still have it.”

John raised his eyebrows and then laughed.

\--

Back at the flat, Sherlock emptied his jacket and trouser pockets, picked up two identical memory sticks, and placed them in an evidence bag. 

John squinted at them on his way to put the kettle on.  “Wait… which one has the information, and which one has the meltdown virus?”

“Lestrade’s problem, not mine.  He has more computers than I do.”  He turned and smiled at John. “Perhaps I’ll tell him to have Anderson test them.”

“You would.” John shook his head and proceeded to the kitchen.

John set the kettle to boil, got down the tea mugs, then leaned back against the worktop, lost in thought. 

“What’s wrong, John?”  Sherlock walked in and stood opposite him. 

A year ago, he might have said “nothing” or claimed fatigue. But he knew there was no point hiding anything from this man. Not now.

John’s eyes alighted on Sherlock’s throat. “Just… seeing that knife at your throat. Brought back some unpleasant memories.” He glanced up and saw the question in Sherlock’s eyes. “From… Italy.”

“Ah.”

“I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to save you the way you saved me.”

“I didn’t save you when the knife was at your throat, John. Stefano did.  I was too frightened to hold the gun steady.”

John nodded.  “Right. Well, bad luck for us we didn’t have his help tonight.”  He managed a feeble laugh.

Sherlock laid a hand on the side of John’s face.  “I didn’t need anyone but you tonight, John. As you can see, I’m still here. Not a mark on my throat.”  His smile became devilish. “Though I’d be happy for you to change that later this evening.”

John felt the twin sensations of desire and dread settle in his abdomen.  It had been a little more than six months since they’d come back from Rome, but he was still having difficulties with intimacy more often than he cared to admit.  He’d thought of seeing Ella again, or perhaps another therapist, one who specialised in sexual issues, but he hadn’t been able to work up the nerve.  He’d also been hoping that it would all sort itself out on its own.

He patted Sherlock’s hand, pulled it from his face and kissed it.  “Maybe tomorrow? When we’re not so bloody tired, eh?”

“Of course, John.”  Sherlock took a few steps toward the sitting room, but then he turned back. “You’re not tired, however. You’re afraid.” He looked John up and down once before continuing through the doorway.

Something began to boil inside John’s stomach. He strode out and caught Sherlock’s arm, spinning him around to look him in the face.

“What the hell do you mean?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“I mean you are frightened, John. Of how the experience has affected you.  You’re frightened that you’ll remember the fear and helplessness, and then you’ll be unable to perform.  You’re frightened that if you let yourself go during sex, you’ll give in to the anger and hurt me.”

“Don’t you dare presume to tell me-“

Sherlock moved in closer, crowding John’s space. “I’m not being presumptuous. I’m explaining the obvious facts, and who better to observe them than the man who shares your life and your bed?”

John’s chin jutted out “I can change part of that last bit. Or all of it, if it comes down to that.”

“Of course you can. You always could. You’re not my prisoner. But you _were_ theirs, John. You were helpless and threatened and physically as well as sexually assaulted over the course of many days.”

“Sherlock, just stop it. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” John wondered if the sensation of steel belts closing around his chest would go away once this damned conversation ended.

Long, elegant fingers reached out and stroked John’s throat. “As I said. Afraid.” He leaned in until his lips were at the level of John’s ears.  Above the pounding sound of his own heartbeat, John heard Sherlock'S voice: “ _Hai paura, Giovanni.”_

Within seconds, John was behind Sherlock, pushing him up against the wall, both Sherlock’s arms bent back, and John’s knee between Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock slumped for a moment, then managed to raise one foot enough to push off of the wall and land on top of John as they crashed down onto the floor, narrowly missing the coffee table. Sherlock twisted his body and straddled John, holding him down.  John tried his standard escape moves, but Sherlock was able to be ready for them and kept him pinned. “Captive again, John?  _Sei tanto bello cosi’_ ”

It seemed as though white light filled John’s field of vision. He could see the outline of someone above him, holding him, but the features were blurred.  He couldn’t tell if the face was Sherlock’s or Elena’s or someone else’s

He used  all of his weight and all of his strength to roll the other person over and beneath him, then he freed one of his hands from the offending fingers and struck at the barely-visible face.

His wrist was caught again, just before it made contact with the other’s jaw… with Sherlock’s jaw.

“John!  Look at me, John!”

John blinked, and he froze for a second.

“Sherlock….. Christ, what the fuck were you…” John raised one of his hands and ran it over his face. “Jesus, I could have nearly killed you.”  He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. “No, John, the worst you might have done is bruise me. Perhaps cause a sprain or a hairline bone fracture.  You won’t hurt me, John. I’m able to defend myself.”  Sherlock relaxed back down again. “I’m also younger and faster than you are.”  He smiled.

John didn’t know whether he would laugh or begin to cry, but he did know that there was something gone from around his heart – a pressure, a weight that he had carried back with him from Rome to London.

“And, obviously, I am a great deal more intelligent.” Sherlock laughed.

“Oh, you look bloody intelligent, there on the floor.” John mocked.

“Do I really?  Hmmm.  I’d have thought you’d choose other terms to describe me.”

John stretched out along Sherlock’s body, pressing down on him, but holding himself up a bit with one flexed arm.

“Such as?” John asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well, seductive comes to mind.”

“Yes, I could agree with that…” John bent and kissed the side of Sherlock’s neck.  “And maddening…” he trailed more kisses up along Sherlock’s jaw.  “And bloody fucking gorgeous…” John captured Sherlock’s mouth with his and kissed him deeply, hungrily.

For a while they lay there together, kissing, touching, holding each other. It felt exciting but natural, as it had nearly every time since Sherlock’s return, and before their recent ordeal in Rome.

“You don’t have to be afraid, John. Not for me.” Sherlock brought John’s fingertips up to his full lips and kissed each one gently. “It will never be worse than tonight, and I managed to come out of it in one piece. Not even a single mark on me, actually.”

John moved closer, and put his lips against Sherlock’s throat. “We’ll see about that,” he said, and began kissing him, open-mouthed, sucking a livid bruise onto the beautiful pale neck.

Sherlock moaned luxuriously, and it nearly took John apart just to hear the deep, beautiful voice.

“John,” he murmured; “Sit up.  I need to do something.”

Confused, John sat up, rubbing his back a bit from the hard floor.

“No,” Sherlock corrected; “On the sofa.  Or on my chair, if you prefer.”

John stood up shakily and slid onto the sofa.  Sherlock moved the coffee table aside and settled between John’s knees.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to…” John shifted uncomfortably as Sherlock’s fingers trailed up John’s thighs.

“I want to John. In fact, I need to. We haven’t done this since we got back to London, have we?”

John shook his head.

Gently, Sherlock took one of John’s hands and placed it on his own head. John’s fingers naturally wound themselves into the soft, dark curls.

Sherlock’s lovely pale eyes gazed up.  His expression was tender, but serious.

“You’re in control of this, too, John. If you want me to stop at any time, just tell me, or push me away. I won’t force anything on you, I promise. Just please agree to let me try?”

John swallowed hard, then he nodded his assent.

Sherlock nuzzled against John’s growing erection, then undid the zip, drew John out and caressed him gently before taking him into his mouth.

At first, the amazing sensation of Sherlock’s lips and tongue warred with the desperate need to make it stop, push the memories away.  He closed his eyes, set his jaw, and he breathed in steadily through his teeth.

Images of Sherlock, bound and gagged, struggling a few feet away flooded John’s mind.  He tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair, then opened his eyes and looked down at his beautiful lover.  This was different. This was kind, gentle, adoring.  There was nothing forced, now.

John’s other hand found Sherlock’s hair, and he pulled Sherlock away for a moment.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.  I just want you to know it.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, turned his head, and kissed the inside of John’s wrist.

They continued, now with John holding tighter to Sherlock, thrusting into that beautiful mouth, losing himself to the feeling, climbing closer and closer to the brink. 

He felt himself about to go over the edge.  Sherlock’s hands moved to John’s hips and waist and caressed him before clutching tightly as the wave of release swept over John’s body.

“Jesus…” he breathed.

Sherlock kissed John’s inner thigh, John’s belly, John’s chest, and settled his head on John’s  shoulder. “I love you, John.  And you’re safe, now.” 

John laughed.  “Safe? With you?”  He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head.  “I don’t think so. But l’ll tell you what I am, Sherlock.”

“What are you, John?”

He pulled Sherlock closer and buried his face in Sherlock’s dark curls.

“I’m home.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to valentina (aka tastiereconsumate) for help correcting some of the Italian phrases in the earlier chapters. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Thanks also to Pati79 for ideas concerning the epilogue.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a request by maskedfangirl on Tumblr.
> 
> Many thanks to the native speakers who helped me by catching errors in my Italian and by offering better choices for some idiomatic phrases!


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